Through the Glass Darkly
by leafiephoenix
Summary: AU: Holmes is a stoic, asexual ex-obstetrician  sans his Watson  who lives in Edinburgh, Arthur is a depressed and suicidal anaesthetist, Gwaine is a charming Austrian surgeon struggling with midlife crises. Enter Emrys, Holmes's elusive nephew.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi guys. First time writing a Merlin AU fic. And it's insane. Literally. There's plenty of OOCness all around because it's an AU, but some their characterizations are still retained. And maybe a hint of reincarnation, too. The first chapter is a bit sluggish, because it's just some introductions into what the characters are like in this universe, but I hope you'd stick around for the later chapters to see what happens next :)_

* * *

**Prologue - Three Wise Men**

**.Holmes**

As the last leaf of autumn kissed the earth, the first snowdrop of winter touched the cold wet pavement. As the last gasping breath left her body, the first tear of mourning rolled down his cheek. Holmes furrowed his brows and looked at the dumb ventilating machine as Arthur wept by his lifeless wife's bed. Holmes felt numb just standing there, didn't know whether he should put his flaky, alcohol-gelled hands into his surgical scrubs' pockets or not. He knew he should feel something for his friend's loss; an ounce of sympathy, or offer him words to sooth the pain. Holmes was tongue-tied; his feet were stuck to the squeaky linoleum floor. His throat felt as if it was filled with granite, and damn it was painful not to break the uncomfortable silence by clearing his throat.

And Arthur wept on; not loud but not silent – soft. Then he turned around to look at Holmes, his eyes welled up in tears. The smile on his face though, was hard for Holmes to forget. And that was when it all went spiralling wrong.

Seven months later Holmes found himself in a different hospital, in a different environment. The hospital itself was far from the city where Holmes was used to work in; there were no bumbling and bustling of cars and traffic and smoke and glass houses. There were no shades of grey here except for the hundred-year-old buildings the hospital consisted of. Everywhere Holmes looked there were the big cottony white clouds decorating the bright blue canvas of the skies, or the woolly white dots of little lambs decorating the green of the fields surrounding the hospital grounds. There was no rush here, just tranquillity with the occasional over-friendly hellos from the hospital's patients lurking between wards. He found himself saying hello back to them, with a friendly face and smile, as if he'd known them for years.

Arthur sat in the hospital cafeteria with a plate of chips, veg and beans on the table, telling Holmes squarely that he's got unescorted passes every lunch time for an hour, because he had been behaving himself. He told Holmes that he was a lot better than the last time Holmes visited him. The meds had helped, Arthur said. Holmes thought he had been saying that every time he came to visit, but this time it was clear that there was a change in his friend's attitude, otherwise he wouldn't have had been given one-hour unescorted passes every day. Arthur was telling Holmes about getting discharged and starting over. The small wonders of cognitive behavioural therapy, Arthur said solemnly; munching his hospital chips and swallowing his lukewarm coffee as if it was the best meal in the world. Holmes could only nod in agreement. If Arthur was really feeling better and not getting hung up about what had happened in the past, Holmes could only feel happy for him.

Holmes visited him again later in the days coming up to Christmas, for the last time. It had alarmed him how Arthur, in their conversation on the phone, was nonchalant about the recent anniversary of his wife's death. It was as if it hadn't precipitated his illness, or perhaps Arthur was truly in remission. Holmes chastised himself for being pessimistic and concentrated on his special plan about this visit, because Arthur would be discharged and return home. Holmes brought another friend along, someone Arthur hadn't seen for years since their bright, young, optimistic days. He quietly hoped that this was a good plan, because what if Arthur became overly stimulated and became manic? But the three of them had all practiced medicine before, and he'd told Arthur he had a surprise, and Arthur was still taking his meds.

It would be fine.

* * *

**.Gwaine**

The Austrian stole a glance at Holmes, who was humming (he wouldn't admit that he was humming) to the tune of The Lark Ascending, because Holmes was posh that way. What he didn't realize was that Holmes knew he was stealing a glance at him, because it was reflected on the train's window. They could've driven to the hospital but it was a) far from the city and b) Arthur was still afraid of cars after what happened a year and a half ago. Symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder combined with car phobia and weren't nice at all; Gwaine and Holmes could vouch for that. It was only that something awful happened to Arthur on a more personal level, and he broke down faster than Gwaine could say Schadenfraude. Gwaine couldn't blame Arthur for it. He'd gone through a lot, more than Gwaine and Holmes could ever imagine. And even the both of them had experienced a lot in their rapidly fading youthfulness.

He'd crossed the English Channel for this reunion of sorts. He had been there at Arthur and Gwen's wedding three years back. He'd never seen Arthur since. Just sent his condolences through a card and a Skype phone call that lasted less than five minutes because Arthur was 'busy'. Everyone thought Arthur had been bereaving normally then, because he had seemed to move on rather well. His colleagues had assumed that when he went to work as usual, he was back to being the usual broody Arthur that they knew. He'd always been that, they said. Broody. They had assumed, and they didn't ask questions. Some assuming bunch of colleagues they were.

Because broody was the last word Gwaine would ever describe him as.

Sometimes Gwaine wondered if real friendships could really stand the test of time and distance, because he could swear that Holmes and Arthur were his closest friends. _Colleagues. _

Well.

It had been 10 years since they first met; Arthur the fresh, young, high-spirited anaesthetist, Holmes the misanthropic, introspective obstetrician, and Gwaine himself – the charming surgeon. The three of them – volunteers, were dispatched to various parts of the world, treating refugees and victims of major natural disasters. Confronted with diseases rarely heard of in the developed world, children made literally of nothing but skin and bones, infants swarmed by flies. The general population merely sat in front of their television screens and watched adverts begging for donations to help (but did nothing but blinked blindly and switched the channel to another same old brand new episode of their favourite talent show). Gwaine, Holmes and Arthur were there, their feet stuck deep in mud, or flood, or the barren earth. Fought with mosquito and flies and slugs. Smelled the rot, witnessed the putrefaction. Evaded bullets and bombs, survived diarrhoea and dehydration. Life and death unfolded in front of their eyes as if they were twins born minutes within each other. Invisible scars had mutilated their souls to the point where adding salt to the injury didn't hurt anymore.

Arthur had become more withdrawn then. Holmes was as stoic as a Holmes could be. Gwaine had been struggling to maintain his first marriage. It had stung when she finally filed for divorce and took custody of his beloved German Shepherd in the process. Years rolled by and Arthur started to look even older than his age. Holmes became the brother Arthur never had. Gwaine (according to gossip) became known as the philanthropic son of a Bavarian count (he wasn't – but he still had a respectable inheritance) who was in the process of divorcing his second wife. He'd felt nothing, as if he had been anaesthetized.

By alcohol. Lots and lots of it.

* * *

**.Arthur**

He'd left London and fled to Holmes's home way up, up north. Confessed to the old man about his obsessions, because he knew that as much as Holmes had difficulty empathizing, Holmes would not be judgmental. And when one's obsession was about stealing anaesthetic drugs from hospital cabinets to commit suicide, Arthur wasn't too proud to seek help. He had nobody left in this world after his wife and daughter's death in that devastating car crash, of which he was only too lucky (or unlucky?) to survive. He'd felt guilty that his life was spared by a thread, as if every day was going to be a reminder of how his life had no meaning – and his day job was mocking him to feel as numb as the people he sedated.

He voluntarily admitted himself to a hospital even way up north, where there was little chance of people he had worked with to find out what had happened to him. He'd received treatment, and now he felt a lot better. And Holmes had promised to pick him up and bring him home. To Holmes's house, where he'll be staying. And Holmes had promised a pleasant surprise.

Arthur packed up his bags and bid goodbyes to the nursing staff who had congratulated him on his recovery. They'd wished him well and hoped that everything would be as normal as a normal life should be. He'd gone as far as not being afraid of cars and modern transportation on the whole. He had tried going on buses and trains. He preferred trains because they move on tracks and not traffic roads. He had the worst phobia of being trapped in cars, though, as if the whole mean machine was going to chew him up and tear him into pieces. He wasn't afraid of cars per se. Just the sensation of being stuck in a moving road vehicle made him feel sick. Unwanted flashbacks would recur. The tablets helped, but he hadn't fully conquered his weakness.

When Holmes appeared at the ward doorway, he didn't recognize the man walking right behind him. It was as if his vision had betrayed his memories. Apart from the peppery shades of grey in his hair, Gwaine hadn't aged a day since he last saw him, while Arthur spent his days catching his reflection in the mirror by accident and discovered that he was turning into a carrot-topped giant wrinkly pink raisin. There was something different though.

Gwaine was more suave, more elegant, like he had done really well for outdone himself. It made Arthur look so inferior in comparison. He always knew that Gwaine would always be outstanding in his career and/or social department. And now Gwaine had that designer beard on his face which made him look even more all-important than he already was, that Austrian bastard. But even that Armani suit and those Gucci shades he wore on his head now couldn't shield Gwaine from his real reaction – sympathy, perhaps – for Arthur, who was currently skulking by the hospital bed, shoving personal effects into his bag. Mostly books, because he was bored in the ward and he needed to do something to kill time. He saw Gwaine's eyes trailing his movements as he chucked the novels carelessly; two, three at a time. Murakami, McEwan, Gabriel Marquez. Two old copies of Red Arrow comics and one glossy, relatively new one about The Avengers; left two weeks ago by the kid who occupied the bed next to him. Will, his name was. He promised to send Arthur news about the latest alternate universe X-Men comics soon. And Arthur wasn't even into comics, or thought he could ever be. Arthur could feel Gwaine's eyes burn through the colourful pages of the comics as he placed them on top of the book pile in his bag, before he zipped them up. It was funny how they hadn't said a word to one another yet. Maybe he was ashamed of what had happened to him. The promises of what could have been for his own medical career. It was supposed to flourish. Gwaine should have stumbled upon him in a proper medical conference in Zurich or something, not in a dingy general psychiatric ward surrounded by psychiatric patients.

"Arthur," Holmes finally spoke. Relieving the silence that hung heavy between the three of them, his voice cracking. "Arthur Pendragon, mein Freund," Gwaine repeated his name, as if he had difficulty believing that yes, I am Arthur Pendragon, your friend standing before you in a dingy psychiatric ward – yet Arthur could only sniff a little and nodded a fraction, still barricaded behind the other side of the bed because he couldn't possibly stand closer to this man whom he had not seen for years because the shame he held in his heart; as if the creaking hospital bed was the shield which would save him from Gwaine's judging eyes, his legs stiff and his voice gone. Silently he cursed Holmes for bringing Gwaine here, but at the same time he thanked Holmes for bringing him back to reality. For it was the likes of Gwaine that he would soon see in the real world instead of psychiatric patients and psychiatric nurses and psychiatrists and Holmes.

The bed remained the barrier between him and Gwaine now, but the Austrian was making his way round the bed towards Arthur. Gwaine bit his lower lip; Arthur's eyes searched Holmes, as if asking him 'What is Gwaine going to do?', but Holmes merely shrugged.

Gwaine spread his arms out like peregrine wings and wrapped them around Arthur, stiff as a Roman pillar; awkward. He couldn't remember the last time anyone hugged him. It must have been Gwen, he thought. Or Ailsa. His sweet angelic little daughter with small hands and feet and butterfly kisses. But this was Gwaine, his Austrian friend whom he hadn't seen in ages, that faint smell of alcohol still lingered on his skin despite the aftershave – oh, this was Gwaine, alright.

Arthur lifted his heavy arms and patted Gwaine's back, trying to remember how to return a friend's embrace. And when Gwaine finally let go, they parted and Arthur felt as if the heavy burden from his heart had disappeared. When he looked at Gwaine he finally knew why – it was as if they were all turned into tears that had formed in Gwaine's eyes.

And Gwaine was not someone who would easily shed tears for anything. Or anyone.

* * *

_A/N: And that was the first chapter. Please tell me what you think of it and whether I should continue. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Holmes**

It was supposed to be a ten-minute walk from the hospital to the train station, but it proved to be longer; because Arthur would stop every other minute and look across the snow-carpeted fields as if to reminisce how the green would've looked like beneath the layers of white powder. It wasn't snowing, but they were walking in inches of deep snow alright, and it made their walk even slower. The chill was getting to Holmes's bones, and he was glad that he had brought an extra pair of Wellies for Arthur to wear. They were walking in a single file now, Gwaine leading the way, Arthur in the middle. Holmes walked last, behind Gwaine and Arthur to watch them, to watch Arthur's reaction to freedom; to Gwaine's presence.

He certainly didn't expect Gwaine to cry when he approached Arthur in the ward – but distance and tragedy and friendship could do that to a man, he thought. Gwaine had apologized afterwards, with a smile on his face, wiping his tears absentmindedly with his knuckles, then: _'Wie ich dich vermisst habe, mein Freund.'_ How I've missed you, my friend. Arthur's first words then made Gwaine laugh uproariously. _'Ihre Designer Bart kitzelte meine Haut.'_ Your designer beard tickled my skin. Holmes had snorted then. It was good to know that Arthur still had some sense of humour left in him.

When they finally reached the train station, they still had about ten minutes left before the train back to the city would arrive. Arthur let out a loud sigh, and steam escaped his mouth as his rubbed his cold hands together. There was no one on the deserted platform, only them three. Gwaine sat on the bench, leaning forward while Arthur towered over him. "So. When did you arrive on this wretched island?"

"Three days ago."

"How long are you staying?"

"Until next year."

Arthur lifted one eyebrow. Gwaine chuckled. "I plan to celebrate Christmas and Hogmanay here. And then probably a few days after New Year, then I'll return to Austria."

"Where are you staying? Did you come by yourself?"

"Like you, I'll be staying at Holmes'. I insisted on booking a hotel room but he refused, telling me it would be nonsense. And I came alone, _ja_."

Holmes noticed his name was mentioned, and how Arthur had glanced at him. "The B&B and hotel prices here are ridiculous, especially during this season when tourists are plenty. I wouldn't want him to waste any money on _authentic _hospitality when I could provide it in my humble home," Holmes protested, making air apostrophes at authentic.

"Provide what in your humble home? Authentic hospitality?" Arthur shot back, amused. "I'd like to see you try, Holmes," he joked. Gwaine laughed. "I've been there for three days, Arthur. He's trying, alright."

"Ah, but is he succeeding?"

Holmes had wanted to say to Arthur, "You and your witty remarks. I'll make sure you eat up your words once we arrive home," but Arthur lifted his arms first in subdued surrender. "Sorry, Holmes. I know I'll be living at your mercy and I couldn't thank you enough for offering me a peaceful, civilised shelter after the disaster that was the psych ward," he told Holmes, his mood solemn. Holmes knew Arthur meant every word. He had no accommodation and would be staying with Holmes as a flatmate until he could find his own flat, but even then Holmes knew that Arthur would end up living with him for a limitless time. That was the unspoken agreement despite what they told other people.

What Holmes told other people.

And now Gwaine was here as a guest; an emergency Christmas and welcome-home gift for Arthur. Three men, who were getting old and older, reunited for memories and sanities' sake. It had been too long.

It was only then that the train began to appear into view in the midst of the fog, slowing down as it neared the platform. As it stopped and opened its doors, Holmes and Gwaine embarked on the train casually. Arthur was still on the platform, unsure to make the giant leap. Holmes thought he saw Arthur gulp, and for once he could actually feel Arthur's anxiety of being in a moving vehicle, despite this being a train carriage and not a car – but with going ahead with this one-way journey meant that he would never come back, or at least hope that he won't have to come back – he would be normal again; he would be Arthur Pendragon, a man, a friend, a person instead of Arthur Pendragon, a mourning husband, a childless father, a psychiatric patient who was depressed and had attempted suicide.

Gwaine held out his hand and smiled.

Arthur took it and made his giant leap.

Arthur let out a loud sigh.

* * *

**Gwaine**

"So what is our next plan?" he asked Holmes once they were seated around the table in the relatively empty carriage save for an old man in front of them and a young lady with a headphone twice the size of her head, busy typing nothing into her Blackberry, unaware that the Arthur, Gwaine and Holmes were even in the carriage. "Yeah, what is your plan to prove the authenticity of your hospitality, Holmes?" Arthur echoed. Holmes bit the sides of his mouth to stop breaking into a smile. If one were to see Arthur now, one wouldn't have known that this man tried to inject barbiturates into himself to die six months ago. Holmes refused to be so optimistic, though. It must be the tablets, he thought. The antidepressants.

"Well, I know this sounds silly but," Holmes began, "what about a trip to Princes Street?"

Arthur looked at Holmes sceptically, then at Gwaine. "You've been here three days and you haven't been to Princes Street?"

"I've been to Princes Street and the Royal Mile," Gwaine explained, "but I suppose I could go there again with you guys."

"The Christmas sale is on and it seemed that he had bought something from every single shop down the entire length of Princes Street _and_ Rose Street. But I digress," Holmes pressed on as Arthur made a face, "I was thinking about going to the Christmas market and the fair."

"Mulled wine and hot chocolate and Ferris wheels and rides," Arthur exclaimed, as Gwaine stared at the display of multicoloured lights, his ears trying to decipher which Christmas carol came from which direction of the fair, his nose trying to pick out the best scent of mulled wine from various different stalls. Really, he should have scoffed at the stall keepers who were trying to pretend to be German (well some of them are, but most of them aren't), and this Christmas market was renowned for it being 'German'. But he was trying to not let that deter the fun he was going to have with the boys tonight. Because Arthur was off alcohol, he tried to stop himself from purchasing them in support of his friend, despite the fact that he was craving the taste of it, even a drop on the tip of his tongue. Nonetheless, he knew it was going to taste vile anyway compared to the authentic ones back home in Austria, so why waste it? He chuckled softly at 'authentic', and cast a glance at Holmes who was downing a cup of hot chocolate. Arthur had chocolate covered apple in one hand and hot chocolate in another, and Gwaine thought, _boys. _

We're not having middle age crises, we're not. We're just men trying to have fun without women or alcohol. Two things that he usually would miss most. But at this moment, with his friends, he didn't really mind being without them. Nonetheless he had been flirting a bit with the well-endowed woman at the chocolate stall earlier when she found out that he could speak German. Holmes had nudged him with his sharp elbow, that old man, and Gwaine had given the lady – Anne from Bayerisch Gmain – 'Ah, that's already too near to Austria!' the most charming smile before rejoining Arthur, who needed some time away from the crowd.

The screams of the people on the rides above them brought Gwaine back from his reverie, and again his gaze fell upon Arthur, whom despite munching away at his apple with such childlike innocence, was silent. Gwaine wondered what was going through his mind, when Holmes caught his eyes and their minds clicked.

The adrenaline rush. The fear. The screams.

Children and their mothers.

Families.

"Hey, Arthur. Do you want to go home now?" It shouldn't have come out so patronizing, as if Arthur were a fragile child that needed to be protected always. Holmes shot Gwaine a warning look, _be careful what you say. _But Arthur didn't seem affected. "Not yet. My first night of freedom and you already want to go home?" he winked mischievously. Gwaine felt a knot in his stomach tighten. Holmes shrugged. "What do you want to do now? We've gone round the market several times, our stomachs are full," Holmes reasoned. Our minds still sober, Gwaine thought ruefully...

"Let's go on a ride," Arthur blurted out.

Gwaine hadn't expected that and judging from Holmes's reaction, he hadn't either. Arthur must have read their shocked expressions because he then placated, "I'm not going to go up those dangerous ones, I'm not stupid. I'm talking about the Ferris wheel. I'd like to see the city lights from above."

There wasn't snow or wind up there, which Gwaine was thankful for because he was already freezing the way it was. Otherwise there was something melancholic about three grown-ups being hoisted a hundred feet above ground, watching the busy city doing whatever business it has down below. People were too small, like ants. Such a shame they couldn't see Arthur's Seat or the Crags in the darkness, but from here they could see the Castle illuminated with changing lights – blue, green, then red; then blue again. He really was expecting more colours, so he was a bit disappointed. It was just the three of them in the metal 'cage', and in front of them were a mother and his young son of about 5. The boy was pointing excitedly at everything, but Gwaine noticed that Arthur wasn't looking at them. It was as if he was avoiding them entirely, pretending that they didn't exist. Behind them was a group of four – two pairs of boyfriends and girlfriends – a group of friends on a night out, obviously. They were drunk, judging from the way they butchered 'Twinkle twinkle little star' and the unabashed kissing noises they made between intervals. It was Holmes's turn to pretend that the youngsters were invisible, from the way he rolled his eyes as they began to sang again.

"It's beautiful, isn't it," Holmes said shouted (because really it was hard to speak when you're up in the air and you've got drunkards singing three feet away from you), as they began to descend slowly after the third round. Arthur managed a nod.

When they got off the wheel, Gwaine felt his legs had turned to jelly. It was freezing cold up there, and he swore it was getting colder by the time they got off. "Where do we go now?" he asked no one in particular.

Arthur looked at him, then to Holmes. "Let's go home now."

* * *

**Arthur**

Loneliness was the pain that gnawed in his heart. Loneliness was the other friend he knows he had, despite at least ten acquaintances in the same room he was in. Loneliness was their legacy for him. He may never be able to see her smile her smirk anymore, hear her voice grumble over his decisions, or feel her warm hands closed over his in a comforting attempt. He would only remember her bittersweet taste, her lips over his, her tongue delving into his mouth.

Now he walked towards the unmade bed. And stopped. And breathed in the unmistakable scent he knew so himself in her blankets; he breathed even deeper into the sheets.

Finding gratification. Finding _Gwen_.

Accepting his loss, accepting his gain.

Accepting her departure.

The dream was too vivid; it felt as if he was still in the London flat where he lived with Gwen and Ailsa, on the first night after they pulled the plug from Gwen. He had been all bandaged up, waiting for his own injuries to heal. Knowing very well that he'd lost them forever, knowing very well that there was one scar that would never heal. Holmes had found him then, in his bed. He hadn't cried. To be honest he couldn't remember what it felt back then. And there was no point remembering.

Holmes had decided to quit his job in search of a chore more rewarding. When Arthur asked him what he wants to do 'after this', Holmes told him he wanted to make brunch.

"No," Arthur shook his head, wondering if Holmes really was dense or innocent he was just avoiding the question. "After _after,_" he said.

Holmes just got out of shower; his hair was still damp but uncombed and already Arthur could see the wild curls that would make Einstein look at Holmes's hair with envy. And now Holmes was tugging on them as he sat at the kitchen counter, waiting for the water to boil to make coffee. "Maybe do a lot of Sudoku puzzles to delay the onset of dementia," he tried to joke but it all came out flat and very Holmes-y and serious. 'Solving puzzles.' Holmes was fiddling with a tuna can, trying to pull the lid open with the tab but it seemed to be jammed. When the water has boiled Holmes inevitably gave up and hobbled to the cabinets instead. "Want coffee?" he asked Arthur, and he nodded.

Arthur reached for the can Holmes left and tried to pull the tab with considerable effort, hurting his phalanxes in the process – but alas he had the strength and finally the lid was open. Holmes raised one eyebrow, probably impressed and continued his dallying with the coffee. "Sugar? Milk?"

"Milk no sugar please," Arthur replied; paused, then added thoughtfully: "You really shouldn't get another cat though, Holmes."

It must have taken a while for his gentle tease to sink in because it took a while before Holmes shoved a steaming mug of coffee to his face with faux fury and said, "You scoundrel."

Gwaine appeared in the kitchen, his million-dollar designer haircut in disarray, yawning. "Guten Morgen, allerseits," he smiled sleepily, his eyes still half-closed. "Surely you mean Guten Tag. It's five past noon," Holmes chided the man who seemed to be suffering from the worst hangover despite drinking not one drop of alcohol last night. Gwaine sat down and pressed his forehead on the table, grumbling incoherently. Holmes cast a glance at Arthur and shrugged.

"I just realized something," Arthur said, causing Gwaine to lift his head; awake and alert. "Tomorrow's Christmas."

"Yes, and your point is?" Holmes interjected.

Arthur frowned. "You haven't got a tree. Gwaine, you've been here three days and you didn't say anything to Holmes about a Christmas tree?"

Gwaine scratched the back of his head. "Oh, I've mentioned it to our dear friend here and he had rolled his eyes at me."

"Don't tell me you deliberately planned to not get a tree at all, Holmes."

"That's why I didn't tell you, Arthur."

"Touché."

Holmes shrugged again, while Gwaine left the kitchen, presumably to use the shower. Arthur didn't even ask why he had decided against a Christmas tree in his flat. It's his flat, after all.

He wanted to tell Holmes that he was still seeing Gwen in his dreams. He kept seeing Gwen and Ailsa; the broken promise of a beautiful family in his dreams and it was painful. And there was an utmost certainty that he would wake up with tears in his eyes; his bed empty and cold, every single night. It was time to move on, he knew it and he had to do it. He had tried.

He had failed.

He remembered the night he took an impromptu train to Edinburgh, to Holmes. That night was different, though. He still dreamt about Gwen, felt her touch ghosting over his skin, but it had been different. And every night after that; his dreams became different. Altered. It felt like someone else's touch.

Someone distant but not forgotten.

So maybe it was taboo that he had decided to resort to suicide. He thought he had gone past the phase of emptiness, and the idea of having another person as Gwen's substitute never crossed his mind. Because he loved Gwen and no other woman had been desirable since Gwen. Even after her death, he had been faithful. Steadfast. _Like a bright star. _

Until that night.

When Holmes asked him to come to Edinburgh, Arthur reasoned that the old man was just trying to help; so that he would have someone to confide in. Although it was the last thing Arthur would expect from Holmes. What he absolutely didn't expect was also to find Emrys there. _Emrys._ Holmes's mysterious nephew. Arthur had recognized him; the young lad was there at Gwen and Ailsa's funeral.

It'd felt like ages since Arthur last saw Emrys. The scrawny kid with blue highlights in his hair. The only facts he knew about Emrys were a) his real name was Christopher Holmes, b) he'd lived on the Isle of Mull and c) he didn't go out from the island much because he was the permanent carer of his sick mom. That was fourteen years ago. Emrys was ten and already looking like a potential ASBO.

So when Emrys had approached him at Gwen and Ailsa's funeral, he was taken aback. He was still dressed unsurprisingly in dark attire because it was a funeral, not to mention he's just that _sort of person who wears dark attire all the time._ The scrawny kid was gone. Holmes was mostly tall and lanky and gangly limbs and it hit him how much he actually looked like Holmes, even if they weren't directly related. The moment Emrys opened his mouth, it became a completely different story. Arthur hadn't been able to catch what Emrys was saying with that thick mix of Scottish-Isle of Mull accent until Holmes intervened.

Half the time he couldn't understand what Emrys was saying. The other half he could only guess. And Emrys wasn't the most talkative of people either, so he had a hard time tuning in. Most of the time Arthur caught him looking at people, brows furrowed; frowning, thinking, reflecting. _Quiet intensity_, he thought. It oddly reminded her of Holmes, again. Pretty much the younger version, except for Emrys's sharper cheekbones and a side profile that could slice through paper. Arthur couldn't help but wonder if Holmes had a soft spot for the boy despite his 24/7 stoicism, because he was the only family member that Holmes often mentioned. Holmes didn't even talk about his sister much, but he would be willing to talk about Emrys, like he was some faceless ghost.

_Emrys_ had been on the other side of the room with Holmes, as guests flocked around Arthur to offer their condolences. He had nodded mutely at every variation of "Sorry", "Gwen was a great woman" and "I couldn't imagine how tough it must be for you" like any other young widower would. In truth, he had been desperate to get away from it all, writhing within to just leap across the hall and jump off the Forth Road Bridge and swim across the forth or something.

But he'd kept aplomb like any good widow would. Holmes had been staring at him as if he knew what Arthur was really thinking about. It was understandable, because Holmes had known him for years.

Unnervingly, Emrys had given him the same stare. Emrys hadn't met him in years.

That night in Edinburgh, after a strangely silent dinner, Holmes had gone to sleep. "You don't have to do this out of pity," Arthur had told the boy. Emrys had merely blinked at him, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I know." And then he had kissed Arthur like it's definitely _not_ out of pity. Maybe it's a one-off thing. It will never happen again, Arthur told himself.

"When you've lost everything, when you've got nothing else but yourself, in a sense you'd find freedom. I've been there when my mother died. I've tasted freedom. But I don't know how to fill it," he'd heard Emrys say at breakfast the next morning. It had been the same setting – Holmes's kitchen; Arthur had never expected to be flooded with flashbacks of that morning's conversation with Emrys. A mug of hot coffee had appeared before him; he had breathed in the strong caffeine scent and closed his eyes in regret.

"Thank you," Arthur had muttered, his fingers reaching out, fiddling with the handle of the mug. He could sense Emrys staring at him with those curious hawk-like eyes. A part of him had wished that he hadn't barged into Holmes's flat, but the other alternative was locking himself in his London apartment and _dying_. For Holmes's sake he would stay. When Arthur said 'thank you,' he really meant it. Not just about the coffee. This was about last night.

He opened his eyes and Emrys's piercing blue eyes had stared back at him. "Drink up or the coffee will turn cold," Emrys told him. Emrys was so much younger than Arthur, yet he couldn't mistake the authoritative tone in the boy's voice. Tears began to well up in Arthur's eyes. "Damnit. You don't look at me like that and then cry," Emrys said, closing the gap between them and cradled Arthur's head gently to his chest. Arthur had sobbed like a babe. He couldn't help it. Sobbed harder when Emrys pressed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head while Arthur clutched at the sleeves of his hoodie.

"I'm sorry," he had rasped. "I'm sorry that I'm so messed up."

Emrys had lowered himself to meet Arthur's eyes and pressed their foreheads together. "We're both messed up."

He couldn't look at Holmes when the old man appeared in the kitchen, dazed and confused and shrouded with sleepiness. Not after what happened the night before. Emrys had said nothing else after that. Pretended that nothing had happened.

Emrys had left Edinburgh for Glasgow that afternoon. Said he wanted to visit a friend, although Holmes and Arthur knew he didn't have friends. Arthur had decided to informally admit himself into a psychiatric hospital the day after.

A/N: I don't know what that was. But that was something, I hope, that is quite readable and different from other fics in this genre. So...yeah. Tell me what you think? :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Holmes**

Holmes didn't belong here, in this crazy city, yet he fit in just perfectly. If even living in Edinburgh could give him a headache, he wouldn't know how he would stand London. He was always three steps ahead others, yet paradoxically always one step behind – but really, it didn't matter. It had been four months and twenty five days since his mother's wake service (not like he'd been counting), one hundred twenty one text messages from his nephew and two thousand eight hundred fifty four mugs of coffee later, he decided to accept the fact that he was alone and always would be. So he stopped sulking.

Emrys had been there at another funeral only a few months prior; a double funeral of Gwen and Ailsa, where: Emrys had seen Arthur; admired him from afar – discreet. But Emrys didn't tell this to anyone; not even Holmes, not even himself. Because Emrys hadn't realized it yet. Because all he could feel for Arthur then was pity, and maybe a tad of sympathy. At that moment when Holmes was sitting facing Arthur, talking to him, and he was looking at him. But the mourning widower had looked past him; distant - as if he was not there with Holmes, nor Emrys, in same moment. He was somewhere far away, still with the pair of eccentric uncle and nephew in his sight but maybe in some fleeting moment in some previous lifetime - because at that moment, Holmes realized, Arthur had been staring blankly at Emrys – cold, lost, confused.

Holmes thought a lot, even way back when they – Gwaine, Arthur and him were far from their homes. If anything, being away made him think a lot harder – he thought about life, and death, and how he was always replaying that Keats quote – _"I have been half in love with easeful death"_ in his head, and he thought what a privilege it would be for the people he was trying to help, to actually die with dignity and as little pain and discomfort as possible. He had wanted to specialize in palliative care back then, in his bumbling youth, because he thought about Death quite a lot and what it meant and what life meant, and how even more precious were the last moments before Death when the dying person would just have to let go.

He became an obstetrician instead. Helped to ferry life into this world instead of ferrying life away from it. Like a mixed up Charon.

When Arthur told him in confidence about how he had been stealing barbiturates from operating theatres, thinking of injecting it into himself so he could join Gwen and Ailsa in the afterlife (if there was one), Holmes hadn't explicitly stopped him. What he had done though, was this:

He had told Arthur to take leave from work and visit him in Edinburgh.

It was also the day Emrys had decided to come around for a visit. First big mistake.

After Arthur was admitted into hospital, Holmes took the first train out and had a long, deep thought:

Emrys would always be faithful to Arthur, because despite never having any interest in having romantic or sexual relationships with anyone, Emrys was easily fixated. Usually on inanimate objects, on car plate numbers and dates. The anomalous event that had occurred between Arthur and Emrys - well, Holmes knew what had happened that night, and Holmes reasoned that Emrys had wanted to help Arthur move on. Emrys had been reluctant to tell him of course, but then confessed that he hadn't done it to toy with Arthur's fragility. He had wanted to do it because Arthur looked like he was about to crash and fall and break. Emrys had wanted to help put Arthur back together again. Like gluing broken pieces of a toy plane together. All Emrys had offered was a simple, innocent hug, which turned into something else. Something Emrys had never done in his life, but he thought that this was Arthur, the man whom he'd always admired from afar. So Emrys had persevered, and if Emrys put his mind to it, he'd excel at it. He had excelled. He'd stopped Arthur from crashing and falling and breaking.

Now Holmes saw Emrys in a new light; saw how the story began. As always, as from the start: Emrys had always admired Arthur from afar - discreet. _Maybe I should act out on it more often, even if I've never done anything like it before, _Emrys had told Holmes.

Holmes had tried to label himself once - maybe he's an aromantic asexual. Disinterested in social interaction when there were other things that can occupy his mind. Like reading. And thinking. He loved thinking. It was how he used up his free time, when he wasn't running around warring countries trying to save people's lives. His escape. Now he's back home and retired and he's thrown out into the real world and he realized that it didn't change anything. He was still Sherlock Holmes, the crinkly aromantic asexual who loved to think and read and get high on coffee and would love to evade talking to people (especially acquaintances he knew, less so much with strangers) as much as he could. The exception to the rule, of course, was when Emrys's mother – Holmes's sister died, and Emrys became his ward of some sort, and Holmes had always been rubbish at family relations so it'd become all awkward. What's worse – Emrys was like the younger version of himself – an aromantic asexual. Disinterested in social interaction when there were other things that could occupy his mind. Like reading and writing. It was how Emrys had used up his free time when he was taking care of his dying mother – Holmes's dying sister, on the Isle of Mull, where he had lived most of his life.

Until Holmes became his guardian and he moved to Edinburgh.

For the first few months since Emrys had been staying with him (while searching for a private flat – Emrys decided that he wanted to be independent), they had been polite strangers living under one roof. Then Gwen and Ailsa died, and Emrys had insisted on coming with Holmes to the funeral because like him, Emrys was also fixated with the idea of Death – and that was that. Emrys moved out of Holmes's flat two weeks after that, into a flat only two blocks away from his – right across McEwan Hall; and that had supposed to be that. Then Arthur had reappeared into the picture and messed everything up.

Arthur had asked him once if he really was that cold and clinical. He wondered why Arthur even asked, because the answer was so blatantly an obvious yes.

Holmes knew that Emrys had always admired Arthur from afar; discreet. Emrys had been curious about why the golden-haired man still looked so sad and depressed; always fiddling with that gold band around his finger. Gwen had gone for nearly six months then. Emrys had told Holmes to tell Arthur to read _The Year of Magical Thinking _by Joan Didion, so he did. That night he'd turned up on Holmes's doorstep, Arthur had finished the book. He'd crept up into the kitchen while Holmes was making dinner and thanked him.

Holmes had said it was Emrys's idea. _Second big mistake._

That night, Holmes had gone to bed after making sure that Arthur was comfortable sleeping on the couch in the living room._ Third big mistake._

Arthur had woken up in the middle of the night, disturbed by nightmares. Emrys, being a nocturnal creature, hadn't gone to bed yet. Arthur had looked like he was about to crash and fall and break. Emrys had wanted to help put Arthur back together again. Like gluing broken pieces of a toy plane together. All Emrys had offered was a simple, innocent hug, which turned into something else. Something Emrys had never done in his life, but this was Arthur, the man whom he'd always admired from afar. So Emrys had persevered, and if Emrys put his mind to it, he'd excel at it. He had excelled. He'd stopped Arthur from crashing and falling and breaking.

Holmes had never talked to Arthur about it.

_Worst mistake._

* * *

**Gwaine**

He realized that there was an unspoken secret between Arthur and Holmes; they were speaking with their eyes instead of their mouths and he'd never felt so out of the loop in his life. Estranged. Maybe he was so used of being the centre of attention that he didn't know how to react when Arthur and Holmes were telepathically connected or something because they sure were hiding something from him.

"So, Holmes. Isn't your nephew going to join us for the Christmas dinner tonight?" he asked.

Gwaine saw Arthur flinch. Gwaine saw Holmes pretending not to see that Arthur had flinched.

"Yes. He is."

"I've never met him."

"You've never met him," Holmes echoed. Disinterested.

"Where does he live?"

Arthur seemed to be following this trail of conversation with interest.

"Around," Holmes replied nonchalantly. "We passed his flat on the way to Princes Street. Right across the hall."

Suddenly, Arthur chipped in. "How is he doing now?"

"As usual. He's got a job at the comic book shop near South Bridge, and he seemed to be very pleased with it."

Holmes had described his nephew to Gwaine as 'a scrawny kid, with blue highlights in his dark hair and matte-black fingernails. The epitome of a teenage rebel.' He'd imagined Emrys as the exact opposite of the awkwardness that was sharp-dressed-Holmes, with a suit two-sizes smaller and perfectly-pressed button down shirts.

The man standing before him looked like a reformed punk. In fact, if Gwaine hadn't known that Emrys used to be a scrawny kid with matte-black fingernails, he wouldn't have known. The blue highlights in his hair betrayed him, and yet it made him look more like a hipster than a punk. Light violet varnish on some of his fingernails; chipped. Fading henna tattoo of intricate flowers on his forearm. Plexiglas-rimmed glasses. Gwaine wondered where Emrys had his glasses made because he'd like one of those pairs, too.

He had come on the dot at 8 p.m. He had difficulty looking into people's eyes. One look at him and Gwaine was able to make a spot diagnosis, even if he wasn't a psychiatrist.

Asperger's Syndrome. Or maybe a milder sort of Autism Spectrum Disorder. High-functioning.

"You must be Gwaine," Emrys said. "I'm Emrys. Holmes's nephew. The young man smiled. It had looked effortless. Gwaine had a feeling that actually, it took many efforts and more for Emrys to smile that single smile.

"Schön, Sie kennen zu lernen." Nice to meet you, Gwaine teased. Testing the waters.

"Schön, dass Sie zu treffen, Doktor." Nice to meet you too.

Gwaine nodded, impressed.

The Christmas dinner went smoothly despite the awkward silences filling each gap in their conversation. If anything, it was Gwaine who was trying to start a topic of conversation, but it always ended up being a conversation that only involved Arthur and him. The dinner was lacking Holmes's wit, as if he was afraid that he might say something wrong – something atrocious in front of Emrys. He also noticed Arthur stealing glances at the youngest member of the dinner party, as if trying to connect telepathically with Emrys, as if trying to say, 'Look at me, I'm trying to tell you something,' but no. The boy continued eating his meal – Gwaine also realized that Emrys was a vegetarian – chomping away on his carrots and broccoli and peas like he hadn't eaten in a week. Gwaine had nearly choked when Holmes politely chided Emrys for his lack of table manners, and had to refrain himself from sputtering all over when Emrys replied, "I'm sorry but I haven't eaten properly in a week."

That had spurred some kind of interest from Arthur. "Why?"

"I just don't feel like eating. I could go on without food for days on end," Emrys said, indicating that this was his normality.

"What have you been doing?" Holmes asked, nonplussed.

"Nothing." And Emrys had continued gobbling up his mashed potatoes, swallowed, and said, "This is really good."

Arthur and Holmes had said "Thanks" in unison, but Emrys had ignored them. Gwaine continued studying Emrys until he decided to return to his own flat, and wished his uncle a Merry Christmas. "I'd wanted to stay but you've got so many guests already," Emrys had said at the door. He had looked at Gwaine straight in the eye.

That was an eerie experience. "Frohe Weichnachten an Sie, Doktor," he'd said.

Gwaine didn't reply. Then, after Holmes had closed the door, Gwaine muttered to himself:_ 'Call me Gwaine.'_

Four days later, on the second day of New Year, he finally found out the story first hand from Arthur. They were in Ayr, a small fishing town on Scotland's west coast and it had all been his idea to get out from Edinburgh, 'a city infested by tourists and I'd had enough of tourists – despite being one myself', he had told Holmes, because from where he came from he'd seen enough tourists with cameras hanging off their necks and maps in their hands looking either lost or drunk. He was too old for Hogmanay celebrations. And Holmes had made the right decision by declining his initial plan of joining the Street Party, but only going out at midnight instead just to see the fireworks. The crowds had been boisterous and loud and smelled of alcohol and it had made Gwaine want to run and cry. But he didn't. He tried not breathing instead, but the crowds were too many and he'd become too lightheaded by being pushed around and he had given up. When they got back to Holmes's flat the fireworks display had ended, Gwaine had rushed into the shower trying to cleanse himself from the sweet-sour scent of alcohol. It made him want to vomit. He had retched. Nothing came out.

The next day he had came up with an impromptu plan of taking the first train out of Edinburgh into Glasgow. But Holmes had had enough of crazy busy cities so he came up with another plan –_ let's go to the seaside_. Despite having lived in Scotland for years, Holmes was Holmes. The only place he'd heard of where people could see the sea was Ayr (despite Silverknowes in Edinburgh itself), and he'd known this only because there was a medium security ward for psychiatric patients in Ayr. Arthur had tried to hide his dismay at this, and had wanted to stay in Glasgow. Gwaine had pleaded for him to come along. After much persuasion, finally he'd agreed. Gwaine thought that Arthur had been reluctant to go to Ayr because it had a well-known psychiatric clinic in its vicinity and that was a sensitive area for him. It turned out that Gwaine was wrong.

"You do know that I proposed to Gwen by the pier," Gwaine heard Arthur complain to Holmes when they were walking by the seaside pier in Ayr, his voice sounds pained.

"Yes," Holmes had replied. Cold.

"Then why did you take me here?"

"This is not the seaside pier you proposed to Gwen. Grow up, Arthur."

And Gwaine had felt one thousand knives stabbing through his intestines because he'd remembered that Arthur did propose to Gwen by the seaside pier in North Berwick. This one, in Ayr was miles away but the scene couldn't have been more similar. Like it was photoshopped into Arthur's head. Albeit without Gwen. Painful memories. Suddenly Gwaine felt guilty for dragging Arthur here in the first place.

They had hurried to check into the B&B nearby when the hail started; a house by the sea, a lucky find after asking three others which had no vacancy. This was the problem with impromptu trips. Arthur had been muttering curses under his breath, his clothes wet and hair messed up. The B&B owner, a lady told them that she had two rooms available – one room with a double bed and one room with two singles. Holmes decided to take both rooms.

"Maybe you should stay with him in the twin room, Gwaine," Holmes said. Arthur was shivering. Cold. Chattering.

That night they all went to sleep listening to the violent tap-tap-tap of the winds and rain and hail meeting the windowpane. Gwaine had lain down in bed listening to Arthur sniffing in the other bed, wrapped up in his duvet. The next morning the weather hadn't been kinder. The whole day they were locked up in their rooms, and Gwaine hadn't seen Holmes for the entire day. Not even at breakfast.

"Well. If I wanted to go to watch the seaside with hales and thunderstorm by the bedroom window after a two hour train journey that cost a fortune, I could have stayed at home and popped a DVD with a beach and thunderstorm on the telly and just stare at it dumbly," Arthur had said in between sips of coffee while watching the trees sway to the winds outside.

"I'm sorry," Gwaine had said. And he thought that Arthur was really angry at him, because Arthur hadn't said anything else afterwards. But then they had gone back up to their room and Gwaine had switched on the television, looking for something more mind-stimulating to watch other than The Jeremy Kyle Show. Then Arthur had surprised him by holding out a pair of cufflinks.

"I'm sorry I forgot to buy you a Christmas present. I just got you this and I don't even know if you'll like it."

Gwaine had been stunned. He'd bought Arthur a pen and a Moleskine notebook, and he hadn't expected anything in return. Especially not a pair of cufflinks. That clearly had belonged to Arthur. Gwaine remembered. It was Arthur's favourite cufflinks. "What the hell, Arthur?"

"I really don't use cufflinks anymore. You do."

Gwaine had accepted them, but in his head it was not as a present, but rather as safekeeping. Arthur wasn't quite right yet. This was dangerous territory. It was times like these that he wished he'd had Holmes's Holmes-ness, because Arthur was staring out at the window and God knows what he was thinking about – and he might be thinking about throwing himself into the sea if he was alone, and the moment would pass if Gwaine didn't say something. So he did.

And Arthur opened up.

"There's a heavy burden in my heart and I don't even dare to unload it because I know that if I start talking it'll all tumble out wrong and I'll look stupid and no one will take me seriously. I mean that's always been my problem. I care too much about people and in the end I care about what people think. Gwen's always told me to ignore it, and in some ways I think she was my rock. She was the CBT that kept the optimist in me alive. But then she was gone and the voices in my head kept telling me how worthless I am and it's really bad. I know the voices aren't hallucinations, I know they're not real but I can't push the thoughts away. I'm not schizophrenic or anything, even though I thought my mom was and the stigma sort of stuck. I don't want to be like her, in fact I've been well for nearly 40 years and maybe I'm one of those anxious personality types."

Gwaine hadn't stopped Arthur while he talked, and it was obvious that Arthur's problem was hopelessness, and it was a subject quite close to Gwaine's heart even if he didn't show it. "We're all insignificant. Specks of dust. A small pebble at the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes I wonder why we even try," he'd told Arthur.

Arthur had nodded wistfully. And then he had said what Gwaine had expected to hear, somewhat sooner or later. "I know that you'd noticed how weird everything was when Emrys was at Holmes's for dinner."

"Are you going to tell me that you know the cause of the weirdness?"

"I think I do know the cause of the weirdness."

If Gwaine had known what Arthur was going to say next, he wouldn't have laughed and said, "Why? Are you the cause of the weirdness?" He should've known. He should've guessed. Arthur then said what Gwaine absolutely hadn't expected to hear.

"I had a one-night-stand with him. The night before I went to hospital."

"I'm not gay, Gwaine," Arthur rubbed his face, his elbows on his knees, sitting on his bed facing Gwaine who was trying not to judge. He really wasn't judging. No. So he decided to pull this around and not make Arthur feel guiltier then he already was. "Your denial is like me saying I don't have an alcohol problem," Gwaine blurted out. There. It's out in the open.

It was Arthur's turn to look shell-shocked. "Wait a minut—"

Gwaine shook his head and cut Arthur's words off. "Don't tell me you didn't know, Arthur. You know I do. You keep telling me off when I was drinking way back when we were with the Medecins Sans Frontieres. I keep telling myself I have no problem. And then I went back home and it got worse. I didn't tell anyone about it. Not even Holmes. I was ashamed of myself."

"Scheisse. What happened?"

"I went in for detox. Twice. I had a horrible time, going through withdrawal. Morning shakes and all that. Chugging three bottles of wine each night after work. Alone. I nearly went into DT the second time. I was glad that Morgana was there for me."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Morgana?"

"She took care of me. Her father was an alcoholic too. She knew all the symptoms. She checked me in and helped me and I wouldn't have been alive if not for her."

"I'm glad you have somebody. She sounds lovely," Arthur sighed. Dejected. Jealous.

Gwaine pursed his lips and tried to imagine Morgana in his mind; her long dark hair and her witchy green eyes and her earnest smile. "She is lovely,"

"How did you meet her? Work in the same hospital?"

"She's a radiologist."

"Ah. That explains everything."

"She helped me a lot," Gwaine gulped. "Listen, Arthur. I might have looked out of place when I stepped into your psych ward. Actually I knew how it felt. I went to AA but it didn't help."

"You're not drinking now though," Arthur reasoned cautiously.

"I'm on pills. Antabuse. Last resort. We've all got problems. I don't care if you wake up when you hit 40 and think that you're into men. It doesn't matter to me."

Arthur opened his mouth as if to counter his opinion, then closed it, then paused before asking, "Why didn't you mention this to us before?"

"No one asked," Gwaine replied laconically. "Wait. Are you talking about the alcohol problem or Morgana?"

"Um. Both?" Arthur shrugged.

"Well. It's weird talking about women in front of Holmes. Remember when I was going through my divorce? Remember the faces Holmes pulled?"

"It's Holmes. What do you expect?"

Gwaine frowned. "So he didn't say anything to you about Emrys?" Arthur shook his head, worried. "Do you think he knows?" Gwaine asked again.

"I know he knows. I just think he doesn't know how to let me know he knows." Arthur's answer was so complicated Gwaine had given up trying to make sense of it. "I lost you there, but why don't you ask him? And have you talked to Emrys ever since?"

"I tried. Added him on Facebook. His profile picture was of a Plague Doctor, by the way."

"Oooh. Nice."

"I know."

Silence. Tap-tap-tap on the window. Gwaine blinked. Dinner consisted of two bowls of instant noodles and tap water. Then, a frank query. "Have you ever felt attracted to any other men?"

Arthur let out a loud miserable sigh. "No. That's why it's strange. That's why I know I'm not gay. At least not full-on gay."

Gwaine decided to let slip another well-guarded secret that he knew he would regret one day. But for now, for Arthur's sake, he'd let it out. "Well if it should make you feel better, I've slept with men before." Arthur's reaction was priceless. He didn't even bat an eyelid when he said, "Why am I not surprised?" Oh Arthur, Gwaine thought.

"Because I'm Gwaine?"

"Yeah, that explained everything," Arthur rolled his eyes. Gwaine was glad that he'd retrieved some sense of humour back. Then, Arthur put forth a philosophical question. "How does it feel to be Holmes? How does it feel to be Emrys?"

"You mean how does it feel to be asexual? I honestly don't know." That was the truth. Gwaine really had no answer to that.

"Danke, Gwaine."

"Kein Problem, mein freund," he said. He didn't even realize that it was ten to midnight when Arthur wished him Gute nacht.

"Süße Träume," he replied as Arthur climbed into bed. _Sweet dreams_. Gwaine regretted it the moment he said it.

"I'll try," he heard Arthur whisper from the opposite corner of the room.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry for the late update. It's a Christmassy-update, guys. And a Happy New Year too. To mark the occasion, I thought this was perfect timing. Anyway. Yes. So there's not much of Merlin and nothing of Watson yet - but no worries. More of that in later chapters :)_


End file.
